Mykel's Column for MRR 310, March 2009

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 310
by Mykel Board

The phrase "healthy life style" is a mask for concealing phobic maneuvers aimed at avoiding the dangers of life, both real and imaginary, especially the temptations of drugs and sex.--Thomas Szasz

SCENE 1: It's a pug. Like the obnoxious little bug-eyed runt in MEN IN BLACK. This one's not black. It's yellow. Piss colored... not a Guinness piss... a Bud-lite.

Attached to one of those expanding leashes, it meanders across the sidewalk, tripping up students, office workers, and anyone else who uses the sidewalk to actually go someplace, rather than sniff around trying to find a place to shit. At the other end of the leash is a young woman. She wears a long black coat. The ends of a brown scarf show over her back next to the perfectly cut edge of her black hair. On her head, is a white furry bell. Not an actual ringing bell, but a bell-shaped hat that would do DEVO proud.

That's all I can see of the girl. Of the dog, I can see more... full view. Sniffing garbage, staircase edges, the shoes of passing pedestrians. Its little chopped-off tail sticks straight into the air. I can see its gray-brown sphincter. An anal stargate. Closed up tight. Clean as a Disney movie.

But wait..there's a little pressure. A tiny bulge in that chocolate spiral. The pointed tip of an emerging turd. The dog stops and squats. There on the sidewalk, as if squeezed from a Crest tube, first one, then the other: two perfect turds, the second slightly shorter than the first.

The woman removes a plastic bag from the leash end. She puts her hand inside, turns the bag inside out, wearing it like a glove. Then, she scoops up the two brown sausages, unfolds the plastic around them, ties the bag shut, and drops it in a litter bin. That's not very interesting.

What IS interesting is, when the dog stands up, its tiny little anus is still perfectly tight, and clean. Just like new. After I take a shit, I spend half a roll of toilet paper cleaning up. Sometimes more... depending on the beer brand of the previous night. Sometimes I need to wipe up my back and down my legs. Ripping the paper, wiping up, down, front to back, back to front. The white paper turns brown, no matter where its whiteness touches.

And here's this little mutt, two perfect pieces, anus clean as Whistler's Mother. It's not fair.

Then again, there's something special in that act of wiping. Something satisfying, like an accomplishment. The outside of my body covered with the inside... like my heart on my sleeve... controlled and made nasally presentable to the outside world by rubbing with soft white paper. Maybe I have the better life after all.

Cut to scene 2: I stand outside the St. Barnaby's Middle School playground. It's the first warm day. The youngsters have shed their heavy coats and run back and forth teasing and testing each other. In one corner, several skinny guys in bluejeans flip a haki sak back and forth: Adidas-to-Nike-to-Nike. Right in front of me. A group of girls in pleated dresses huddle over a cellphone, backs to the oblivious teacher,

One youngster, skin the color of chocolate milk, stands against the school wall. He's the only one wearing shorts. His thin yet adolescently muscular legs disappear appetizingly into his silver shorts. He puts one leg in front of the other, as if posing for a Greek sculpture. I imagine the callipygian youth naked, turning. I imagine his sphincter, much-wiped, but probably eternally closed to me. I imagine... Uh oh.

There... on the other side of the street... this NYU jock. Six and half feet tall. Shoulders out to here. Crewcut. Xanthrocroid. A square hairless face. Some football team barely visible on his hooded sweatshirt. I can see an O and a piece of another letter. TROJANS? WARRIORS? GORLOCKS? I can't tell.

His simian right arm drapes over a girl's shoulder. She's half his height. Long “blond” hair... tits as frontal as his shoulders are side. She looks up into the guy's eyes as if he's the only human in the world. In profile, I see Mr. Muscle look down at her. The shadow from his baseball hat hides his eyes, but I can imagine their practiced blueness, penetrating the otherwise empty brain of his big-boobed girlfriend. He bends down. Kisses her lightly on the forehead. Yuck. That's sick.

The meat: This is the health issue of MRR. I expect most columnists will focus on the sorry state of healthcare in America-- or on their own particular health problems. We've got some ill amongst us. Maybe George Tabb will talk about his own problems. That is, if he can stop talking about me. (I love it, of course!)

There are three main concepts of disease:

ONE: The Western version says disease is like war. An army (of cancer cells, bacteria, viruses) invades. The job of the doctor is to kill or repel the invading army. Drugs and surgery are the weapons. If you have the flu, for example, it's caused by a flu virus. If you kill the virus, you get rid of the flu. The more you kill, the healthier you are.

TWO: The Eastern version of disease says disease is like juggling. As long as everything balances, it works. But if the balance is off, you drop your balls. If you have the flu, for example, it is because an imbalance in your body allows the flu virus to have a bad effect. There are always viruses and bacteria in the air... on the land... in water. Some people get sick, others don't. The reason? You get sick because your body is out of balance. In that weakened state, the flu bug can take over. The job of the doctor is to restore the body's balance. They use herbs, pressure, needles and food, to restore that balance.

THREE: In America, “healthy” and “sick” have replaced “sin” and “virtue” as a way to judge others. Drinking too much... eating too much... homosexuality... gambling... “too much” everyday sex... even “over-shopping.” These are sick, in America in 2009. They are no longer “sins.” No longer “bad.”

In Spanish, you tiene (have)sickness. In English, we ARE sick. Disease of new, like sin of old, defines the individual: I am an alcoholic. You are not what you eat. You are your sickness.

In the past, I've ranted against this definition. I've stood outside America's linguistic gates, banging my hair-plugged head against the lock... demanding change inside.... a new way of speaking... a way that allows people just to be, rather than to be sick. For some unimaginable reason, the linguistic gates, like that little colored guy's much-wiped sphincter, never open for me. So I'll try another stratagem.

I'll accept your definition. You got it. No sin or virtue. No good or bad. Just sick or healthy. But my kind of sickness is Eastern sickness. An imbalance. A tilt, like the leaning tower of Pisa. It's not an invading army. It doesn't need surgery to cut something out. It doesn't need poisons to kill the invaders. It needs a gentle tug the other way. A pull back to equilibrium. Let's take a look at what's sick-- and what isn't.

RULE ONE: Nothing that occurs in your mind is sick. Your mind is where you can do ANYTHING. You SHOULD do anything. It is the center of freedom, a test zone for all ideas. The wildest things are possible here, with NO REPERCUSSIONS. Put a bullet through some evangelist's head in real life... you're outta here! But do it in your mind... and you're free. NOBODY KNOWS!

RULE TWO: This kind of freedom is available to anyone. Every prisoner in every cell in the world has this freedom. It is healthy. Mental freedom is healthy.

Included in this rule is knowledge that some things should remain in your mind. You learn to see them in your mind, smell them in your mind, do them in your mind and then let them go. A fantasy about ripping through your highschool class with an AK47 is healthy. Actually doing it, is not. 

RULE THREE: Outside your own mind you can lose your balance... begin to tilt on the slippery slope of disease. And it is DIS-EASE. Your body feels uncomfortable. You aren't satisfied with life in your mind. You're worried about life in other people's mind. You're worried about what THEY think, or worse, what THEY think of YOU. You have something to prove.

“I'm getting laid and you're not,” is what you have to prove to the guy next to you. So you drape your arm around your big-boobed catch, and mark your territory with a kiss to the forehead.

You need to show you possess this girl. You need to keep her in your hand. She might run. You might be alone. Your fears push you off balance. You become sick.

What else is sick?

RULE FOUR: Acting immorally in the world... that's sick. I'm not talking about Christian morality. That says anything that makes your body feel good... is bad. Or the new Christian morality that says anything that makes your body feel good... is “unhealthy.” I'm talking about human morality. A morality that says anything that contributes to the pain of others is ba... er... sick. Buying sweatshop shoes that create the pain of poverty... that pushes the world off balance. That's sick. Withholding money from the bum on the corner, when you're going to use it to download some crustpunk song from i-tunes... this guy's starving in front of you. That's sick. Becoming a temp-lez, so your politics will look right to your fellow students before you find Mr. Corporate Right and move to the burbs to drop puppies. That's sick.

SO: Jerking off to fantasies of sucking the eyeballs out of severed baby heads is NOT sick. Dreams of wallowing in entrails pulled through the hairless vaginae of 10 year old daughters of British aristocracy are NOT sick. Holding hands with your girlfriend while waiting to try on a pair of Nikes. That's really sick.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to comment on the column]

--> Celebrities go free dept: No, I'm not talking about the Lillo Brancato Jr. murder trial. I'm talking about another case.

  Most of America knows that Rush Limbaugh was caught with a bottle of Viagra prescribed for someone else. It was at U.S. customs on a return trip from the Dominican Republic. I guess me and Rush have similar tastes in colored girls. Unfortunately for Radioland, Rush will not have to face charges for the illegally possessed drugs.

  The local DA (or the feds, I'm not sure which) have decided not to pursue the case.

-->Keith Dobson sent me a brochure of "Precious Gifts from the Redwoods." It lists all those great things (like vases and "three tier modern bowls") that you can buy from the deforested redwood trees. Now that's appreciating nature: cut it down and put it on your home shelf. Yowsah!

-->Nutrition Action Newsletter is published by The Center for Science in the Public Interest. The newsletter shows lots of scams Big Food uses to make you think the shit they're selling is “healthy.” The only thing I dislike about the publication is that it calls especially unhealthy food: Food Porn. That gives porn a bad name.

  But, I was dismayed to receive a mass emailing from CSPI calling for a government ban on SPARKS! That beer/Red Bull mix is as logical as spaghetti and tomato sauce. I mean, the only DISADVANTAGE to getting drunk is that you can't stay awake to enjoy it. SPARKS solves the problem.

  Sleazier than a letter-writing campaign, CSPI is asking for people to send them “bad experiences from mixing Red Bull with alcohol.” How about the GOOD experiences? How about the people who DIDN'T fall asleep at the wheel when they were drunk? How about the folks who COULD keep their eyes open to enjoy the sex that their drunken conquest got them? How about THOSE experiences? (Is there any difference between SPARKS and Irish Coffee?) 

  Let's show 'em! Send them your GOOD experiences with Red Bull/booze mixes... and your thoughts on this ban. Email Carol Walsh at: cwalsh@cspinet.org. Tell her that you think banning SPARKS is SICK!

-->Real DIY dept: So the banks and auto execs get bailouts from the government. Where's my cut? That's what the factory workers at Republic Windows & Doors in Chicago wanted to know. The factory gave them three days notice, then fired everybody and tried to shut down. Hang on! The union guys on the floor said no. They sat down and took the place over.

  Even though I'm not a big fan of WORK, it's nice to see people DOING things instead of taking it on the chin. I only wish New Yorkers had the balls to do something when it hits them... like when the transit fares go up. The mayor has 36 billion dollars, and they're raising MY fare to cover a gap of less than 1/36 of that. Yo Mayor, bail ME out! Meanwhile, I'll sit in on the subway platform floor. Gonna join me?  

-->Church and State Dept: The government of our nation's capital gives $12 million to Central Union Mission for a homeless shelter. Sounds good, huh? Well, the shelter requires church attendance, or they throw you back on the street. One man was too ill to go to the religious services. They kicked him out-- to sleep on the streets. That's sick.

-->Even in New York and Berkeley Dept: Two bastions of liberal free speech? Yeah right. In New York, City officials ordered Cooper Union College to remove Picasso's portrait of Joseph Stalin from their facade. The banner was part of an exhibition by the artist Lene Berg. Complaints from the local Ukrainian community brought the ban. They thought the banner “seemed to promote Stalin.” We wouldn't want pictures of Stalin, would we? He was against free speech.

  In Berkeley, four posters were banned from display at the city-run Addison Street Windows Gallery. The posters were banned because they contained images of guns. Oh yeah, the name of the exhibition was Art of Democracy. Yeah, right.

-->Keep them (and me) coming dept: Yeah, keep sending me those homemade porno vids! I love 'em. I'm still at POB 137, Prince St. Station, New York NY 10012

-end

You can go to Mykel's homepage for lots of other interesting, weird stuff.

Mykel's MRR Column 309 (Feb. 2009)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 309 (Feb. 2009)
by Mykel Board

“Americans always do the right thing... when they have absolutely no other choice.” --Winston Churchill

Naked, I lay on the bed. I slip a hand behind my back, through my legs. Grabbing my balls from behind, I pull them down between my legs. I press my thighs together, holding the balls under me. My cock rests on top. It's no longer a cock, but a large clitoris. I've made myself a girl. I can diddle my clit to EuroAngels Hardball 4. Diddle. Diddle. Diddle.

It's election night. I can't watch. I want to diddle myself away from the hell of a McCain presidency. Worse. He won't make it a year. Sarah Palin, not MILF enough for me, will be in the Whitehouse. It'll be worse than Hillary Clinton. I don't want to watch the news. Watch the inevitable Red State creep, as the blood-colored states spread in the smear of American moronocity.

Americans are stupid vengeful people. The crackers of the Carolinas. The old Florida Jews. The hardhats in Ohio. They'd rather give up their homes to a bailed-out bank, than vote for a Negro. I know them.

Americans are the dumbest, most racist, most hateful, people on earth. Like they're gonna vote for Barack Hussein Obama. NO WE CAN'T!

I've got to stop thinking about this. My clit won't harden. That nub won't poke up. Won't swell to its girlish heights. I'm beating a dead larva. Choking a limp chicken. Spanking a... What's that?

Through my closed window comes the sound of cheering. People in the street. Screaming. Applauding. Stomping in joy. Horns honk. I can't fuckin' believe it. He must've won. Somehow, he did it.

I turn off the DVD and switch to CNN. There's McCain now, talking to a cheering crowd:

That Barack Obama managed to inspire the hopes of so many millions of Americans, who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president, is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving.

This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for African-Americans and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.

A century ago, President Theodore Roosevelt's invitation of Booker T. Washington to dine at the White House was taken as an outrage in many quarters.

America today is a world away from the cruel and frightful bigotry of that time. There is no better evidence of this than the election of an African-American to the presidency of the United States.

African-American? Presidency? Fuck! He won. We won!

Pride for African-Americans? Hah! Pride for Whitefolks, I'd say. Pride for Jews! Pride for everyone who voted for the guy even though (because?) he WASN'T one of them. I feel like dancing. Walking on air. Kissing a fat girl.

They did it. Those shallow, stupid Americans. Those I had so much contempt for. Those crackers. Those Jews. Those shlubs in Ohio. They did it My mind drifts to the future.

I'm in Europe. It's 2009. The Euro has declined enough to let me visit my old friends in Germany. I get off the plane and go to immigration. I flash my American passport, something that usually fills me with embarrassment, if not dread. Not this time.

“Listen, you fucker,” I think at the immigration agent. “Don't say a thing. I don't want to hear it. I don't want that Oh, a stupid American sneer. I don't want see your hands grip the passport, thinking another violent thug.

Fuck you. We elected Barack Obama. We're the first Western nation. First “white” nation to have a leader who's not white. You didn't do it. You couldn't do it. WE did it. We, America... Something I haven't felt part of since Jimmy Carter gave amnesty to the draft dodgers. Me, a United Statesian and PROUD of it. My mental flag waving strong.

Flash ahead to the real future: Gilberto invites me to Boston to see THE DWARVES. The show's before a farewell-for-two-weeks party for him. He's going back to Sonora to see the family, and prepare for the great LATIBBEAN PARTY in Mexico 2009. I'll post the details on Latibbean.org as I get 'em.

I'm at the show with Gilberto, some of his friends, my pal John R. and his daughter. (Everybody thinks she's his girlfriend.) The Dwarves, of course, are great... a little calmer than they used to be, but still a lot of fun. The surprise of the night, however, is a band called THE UP-RISING.

UP-RISING is pure hardcore fun. A big singer with So-Cal attitude. (Looks like he's been around. Mid-30s, hardcore crust on the edges... How come I never heard of these guys?). He even gets the crowd to sing along to the punkrock hits of the 80s. Can you say 6-Pack? Most of the audience was still sperm when that came out.

I forgot my earplugs, so I chew on a few napkins and stick the spitballs in my ears. Not the best sound protection, but even a daughter is better than nothing.

I love the band, but I can't hear the patter between songs. Something about the anniversary of a Bali Bombing-- with a lot of God bless yous.

Uh oh, I think. Some stupid anti-Muslim redneck garbage. I'm glad I don't understand it. Besides, the band is so good, I don't want to spoil a good time.

After the show, I go over to the merch tables. I don't plan to buy anything. I just wanna tell The Uprising how much I liked their set... despite that God Bless You shit. I also want to ask 'em about Bali bombing. So what if it's an anniversary. Every day is a bombing anniversary. Do they mention Hiroshima? Belgrade? Are they spreading some kind of anti-Arab bullsh... Ok. I'll let 'em speak for themselves.

“Yo!” I say in my typically shy way. “You guys were great. Best surprise since Kissy Kamekaze. But...”

Before I can finish, by pal John... who's got better hearing than me, perks up.

“You a surfer?” he says.

The guy... Crab, the band's singer, nods. How the fuck did John know?

“So you were in Bali for that surfing thing,” John continues.

Looks like I missed something.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was the only American who lived.”

“I heard about it,” says John.

“You don't know,” says Crab. Then he tells the story.

I'm in Bali for this surfers fest, I guess you know about it. We all go to this disco... all the surfers, I mean. I'm not much for discos, but since everybody was going.... So we're inside and I'm just talking to this guy. A friend of mine... fellow surfer... blond hair, kinda skinny, you know, the kinda guy that girls like... well liked... see. Suddenly he explodes.

It's a huge sound. Louder than anything in my life. My hearing's still wrecked from it. Can't hear at all out of this ear. But just then I don't hear the sound at all. I just see my friend... explode.

I see his head blow off, just go into the air... just pow, it's flying... his mouth is still working... jaw going up and down... even 8 feet in the hair... just his head... Everything's in slow motion. His insides explode. Guts coming through his body. Flying into my face. Covering me. Can you imagine... imagine... imagine what it's like being covered by your friend... pieces of your friend. Blood, guts... His skin all over me... Skin in my eyes... over my eyeballs. Intestines in my mouth, my nose, breathing intestines. Inhaling intestines... I can still taste it. How many people know... know... know the taste of raw human guts. I know. I'll never forget it. They hit me so hard in the mouth... almost knocked my teeth out. Your friend. And there he is. You're inhaling him. Tasting his blood. It was warm, no hot. Hotter than your own blood, you know when you get a cut or something? And his flesh. Seeing pieces of his body.

Just blam... your pal.. turns inside out. One second he's just standing there... next second he's... he's... he's in pieces. All over you. It's not something you forget. You can't forget. Never forget...

He stops to breathe. Close his eyes. If he cries, I'm gonna lose it. He doesn't cry.

“I thought you might be a surfer,” says John. “I'm a surfer too... in Boston. But I was thinking about going to that Bali party. It's a good thing I didn't.”

“Yeah,” says Crab. “A good thing.”

“Holy fuck!” I think, forking over five bucks for the band's homemade CD. “If that were me, I'd wanna kill 'em all. Al Qaeda, Joe Ali-salaam, a random lady walking down the street in a black headscarf. I'd be a maniac. I'd move to Israel. Join ARAB-BUSTERS. Vote for Joe Lieberman.”

But here's this guy. The only American who lived. And there's not one speck of hate coming out of him. Not one phlegmspot of malevolence.

It's America. Hooey! Some new America. It's people saying Yes, We Can. It's not an eye-for-an-eye. It's compassion. It's lack of hate. Not kill 'em all. It's something more than bumper sticker brains and gunracks.

Yes, we fuckin' can.

By the time you read this, I'll be back from a trip to South Carolina. And in North Carolina, besides buying pecan log rolls at Stuckey's, I can actually talk to people. I can say “Hi. I'm an American too. Maybe we even voted for the same person.”

Back on the bed, blood rushes to my clitoris. I rub up and down. Yes, we have the best chance ever. Yes, we can. We can have a white country lead by a colored guy named Barack Obama. I rub harder. Faster.

Yes, we can. We can feel pain and not respond with hatred. Yes, we can. We can cheer and honk horns for more than a football win! Yes we can! My labia swell with blood as my little girlnub hardens in my hand. Yes, we can. I rub more. Yes, we can. Yes. Yes. YES!!!

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]

-->Glad the Brits are on it dept: BBC world news reports that Maasai herdsmen in Kenya have use an age-old contraceptive, the "olor", to protect their goat herds from a drought.
The locals make an olor from cowhide or a square piece of plastic. Then, they tie it around the belly of the male goats. It keeps them from screwing. The herdsmen are using the device to limit the goat population and make sure there aren't too many animals grazing on sparse vegetation.
"We don't want them to breed in this drought," says Ole Ngoshoi Kipameto, a Maasai goat owner.

-->Keeps her a virgin dept: A Jesuit magazine has apologized after inadvertently publishing an advertisement for a Virgin Mary Statue wrapped in a condom. The artist intended it as a protest against the church's opposition to condom use.
The Rev. Drew Christiansen, editor-in-chief of America, said that the condom was not visible in the black and white proofs they used to review the final draft of the magazine.
The headline for the ad read, ''Unique Contemporary Religious Art Work for Sale.'' In the text, the statue was called ''Extra Virgin,'' and was described as ''a stunning 22 cm high statue of the Virgin Mary standing atop a serpent wearing a delicate veil of latex.''
The statue was made by Steve Rosenthal, who said he was an artist in London. Rosenthal released a statement saying he placed the ad as a protest against Vatican opposition to the use of condoms.

-->Again with the kids dept: Amazingly, the Supreme court ruled (5-4) that states could not use the death penalty against people convicted of child rape. Though they did not say they enjoyed the crime, the judges said that "in terms of moral depravity and of injury to the person and to the public, it cannot be compared to murder." They did not mention where dropping bombs on civilians fits on the moral depravity scale.

-->Mixed emotions dept: Remember Elliot Spitzer, the NY Governor who promoted stronger laws against prostitute patrons. He was caught with a $10,000 prostitute. I was sad he was a victim of a horrible law. I was glad it was HIS law he was a victim of.
Likewise, the arrest of right-wing evangelist Tony Alamo mixes my emotions. On one hand, it's a joy to see the bastard nailed. On the other, the charge is "possession of child pornography," clearly a crime with no victim. I mean, how the hell does POSSESSION hurt anyone, even if you believe making of porn does?
Oh well, bad law... but it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person.

-->Now THAT's an emergency dept: Local cops are familiar with the neighborhood cranks. You know, the guys who call 911 to complain about their neighbor's squeaky bedsprings. But my favorite crank is Reginald Peterson of Jacksonville Florida. He called 911-- twice. Why? A SUBWAY restaurant did not prepare his Italian sandwich correctly. They left off the sauce. If that's not a bigger crime than having kiddie porn, it should be.

-->Then there's the Longmont, Colorado guy who tried to get free porn from the locals. He told the clerk he was a detective who wanted to check the films to make sure there were no underage people in them. He even flashed a badge. He told the store to give him the DVDs "to inspect." Though it was a good scam, it didn't work. The store gave the REAL cops store surveillance tapes, made while the fake cop was demanding vids. They haven't found him. Yay! He didn't get any free DVDs. Awww.

-->It's catching dept: Not to be outdone by Christians with their drive-in churches, Utne Reader reports that "Mega-Mosques" are rising all over America. One in northern Virginia has more than 5000 families. Many offer church-like programs, including gymnastics and Boy Scout training. Oy vey!

-->Criminally correct dept: In Car & Travel Magazine (October 2008) they use a photo to illustrate an article about car models popular with thieves. The young man, in a hoodie, with a jimmy stuck in a car window.. is white. Hmmm, shouldn't they have made it a girl? A grandma? What's with this cliché that all car thieves are young men? Are they prejudiced?

In case you're wondering what to steal, the most popular models for 2007 were the 2000 Honda Civic, the 1994 Honda Accord, and the 1991 Toyota Camry. It is not clear from the article-- or photo-- how many of the thieves are Japanese.

-->More on sackcloth & ashes dept: (I copped this from the internet someplace. I wrote about this plan before. Evidently, it flopped.)

Birmingham Mayor Larry Langford castigated a local clergy group because he doesn’t think enough churches participated in his sackcloth and ashes rally back in April. He also criticized churches for espousing prosperity theology (a valid point) but pretty funny coming from the man who accessorized his sackcloth with a Rolex and designer shoes.

In 2002, about the same time he was running for county commission, Langford had accumulated about $70,000 in credit card debts and department store bills. Most of that debt was for clothes.

-->How to get money from the government dept: Kyle wrote me that his girlfriend, Angie can't stay with him because of a “no contact” order on his probation. So she was homeless.
The solution? Kyle punched in her in the face and kicked her in the ribs. It left a couple hardcore bruises. She then went to the women's assistance center for homeless women. She told them her ex husband beat her up.
The center called the cops and took her to the battered women's shelter. With a copy of the police report, the welfare office put her in the domestic violence assistance program and gave her a $1500 check. Then, they found her an apartment, paid the deposit and the utilities.
I think Kyle should charge for his services.

-->God does it again dept: A recent Science Illustrated reports that 1,800 people participated in a prayer medical-heart-study.

The result? Those who knew that they were being prayed for, were 7 per cent MORE likely to develop complications than those who either didn't know, or weren't prayed for at all.

The authors surmise that the reason was when people knew others were praying for them, it made them more nervous and they got sicker. I say bullshit. The real reason? God got pissed off at people disturbing her (God) with their stupid supplications. She wanted to teach them a lesson! Fuck you AND your prayers!

-->Just keeps getting better dept: My pal Sid Yiddish was in town. We did a Pennsylvania talk radio show on WDIY, and recorded 45 minutes for StoryCorps-(heard weekly Friday mornings on National Public Radio or www.storycorps.net).Sid stayed at my apartment during that time.

I like having guests every once-in-awhile, but a major problem is that they use up the toilet paper. Well, this time, God was listening to ME!

Sid and I go ABC NO RIO to see the hard-on inducing Kissy Kamekaze. We not only see them, but are amazed at TRIGGER EFFECT from Montreal. Those guys were literally bouncing off the walls-- like Spiderman-- or Jet Li. I've never seen that outside the movies. And they're LOUD. Reminds me of Motorhead... if Motorhead came from Seattle.

We're also treated to the funny, and scatological ENDANGERED FECES (best name of the year?) They're ecologically (scatological?) incorrect... throwing rolls and rolls of toilet paper over the crowd. Then the crowd throws the paper at each other. I haven't had so much fun since my first night in Trinidad!

PLUS, Sid dives right in, rescues two barely bothered rolls for our own private use. I'm using some of that paper right now, to clean up after EuroAngels Hardball 4.

-end

Hail Chavez.... Not: Mykel's Column for MRR 308 January 2009

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 308
by Mykel Board

"If all Americans want is security, they can go to prison.” --Dwight D. Eisenhower

Recap: I'm on the plane leaving Port of Spain, Trinidad for Caracas, Venezuela. My week has been a paradise of spicy food, Stag beer, great new friends, Trini-punk, girls with asses you want to call home, and a kind of English that oozes Jamaican, Indian and African.

It's been my best first week ever in a country I didn't get laid in. Trinidad is a free place. You can drink outside, smoke inside, say hello to street-walking trannie hookers, and never show your ID for anything.

The locals, however, warned me. It's dangerous. There's a high crime rate. I shouldn't show my camera or wallet. Basking in the Caribbean sun, I begin to wonder if the price of freedom (Trinidad is one of the freest countries I've ever visited) is danger.

I don't sleep on my last night in the country. You wouldn't either if half the country were buying you drinks. So, half dead, I board this plane to Caracas. I want to see if Hugo Chavez is as cool as I think he is. He's got the balls to stand up to Bush. He gives money to poor people in New England who can't afford heating oil. The U.S. Press hates him. What's not to like? Right? Yeah, right.

No one's gonna meet me at the airport in Caracas. Johnny, my MySpace punk pal, has to work late. I won't see him until tonight.

Like in Trinidad, I'll do one night in a hotel in Venezuela. That way, I have a touristy address for the immigration man. Then I'll switch to punk rock.

The plane arrives in Caracas about 8:30AM. The flight was 20 minutes-- not enough to fall asleep. I'm so tired I feel like I'm sleep walking.

I pass through immigration and customs.

“Passport... What's your Venezuelan address?... You're a tourist?...” Stamp.... “Next!”

It's suspiciously easy, if commonly unfriendly.

On the way out, I walk through a large sliding glass panel. On the other side of the panel are two uniformed men.

One points to me. The other takes my back pack.

Uh oh, here it comes. The customs guards on the other side of the door. Just waiting for you to let your breath out. To go to the bathroom to pry the cocaine-filled condom from your asshole. To twist the heel on your shoe and spill the heroin into a plastic bag.

“You speak English?” asks the guard who took my bag.

I nod.

“Where are you going?” he says.

“I'm going to my hotel,” I tell him. “Hotel La Floreta.”

He leads the way, away from the sliding panel, carrying my bag. Tight grip.

“I want to get money from the bank. From a machine,” I tell him. In case he's a federal agent, trying to catch me playing the black market.

“The machines only give you 1.95 Bolivars for each dollar,” he says. “I give you three por un dollar.”

“I'd rather go to a machine,” I tell him.

He shrugs and grabs my bag tighter.

“Follow me,” he says.

We walk. We walk to the right. To the left. Around in circles. To an isolated machine. He gestures. I go to the machine and insert my card. It spits it back at me.

“It no work,” he says. “We try more.”

We walk. We go downstairs. Across a huge lobby, to a gaggle of machines. He gestures. I walk up to a machine and insert my card. The machine spits it back at me. Another in the same gaggle. Same result. A third. This one works... as all third tries work in stories. It's Writing 101. Look it up!

I withdraw about $100 in Bolivars. Then, I go back to the guy with my bag.

“Ok,” he says. “Now we go to taxi to hotel.”

“I want to take the bus,” I tell him. “I don't want to take a taxi.”

“No buses,” he says. “You go by taxi. 150 Bolivars (about $75).”

“I can't pay 150 Bolivars,” I tell him.

“You change money with me,” he tells me. “I make cheaper. Look,” he pinches his uniform and holds it out from his body. “I am officièl. From the airport. All is okay. Okay?”

Yeah right.

Exhausted, bleary minded, I fish $50 out of my wallet. I give it to him. He counts it and then reaches into his pocket. He gives me 150 Bolivars, counting them carefully into my hand.

“I give you discount taxi,” he says. “For you, 120 Bolivars. I ask my friend.”

For you, 120 Bolivars? Where am I? 47th Street Photo? Oy vey!

You can read about the rest of my adventures with this official. They're posted on the diary blog.

That's the potatoes. The meat of this column is my actual stay in Caracas. I meet Johnny that night. We go to a bar in “El Barrio.” It's supposed to be a dangerous neighborhood, but looks friendly enough to me.

“Is my car okay?” asks Johnny, looking out the bar window to where the car is parked... across the street. “I just want to make sure no one is breaking into the car.”

Johnny tells me that he's going to Columbia. The people are nice there. I can stay at his place if I want to, his brother is there. But I have to leave early, when his brother goes to work. And I can't come back until his brother is home. There is only one key.

You can't use keys as a sign of real danger. They're only perceived danger. Frightened people buy more locks. People may be scared because bad guys lurk on every corner. OR, people may be scared because they think bad guys lurk on every corner. They read it in the papers. See Fox 5 News... America's Most Wanted. It's hard to tell the reality. But it's easy to tell the reality that people are afraid. The more keys, the more fear.

In any case, I decide I'd rather stay in town. With a couch-surfer, actually the family of a couch-surfer ,I met in Trinidad. He said I could stay with his mom and sister in Caracas... in the room he grew up in. The family'll put me up for a week.

Flash forward: I write this in the apartment of my Venezuelan hosts. A middle class place in the center of Caracas. Mom and her daughter. Both bigger than the World Trade Center (used to be). They don't go out. Never get any exorcise except walking from one room to the kitchen. It's dangerous outside. The city is full of criminals. They just stay in and eat. Crime is everywhere, they tell me. Keep a few Bolivars in your pocket and leave your wallet at home. Don't show your camera. Don't show your computer. Don't walk past that street you can see from the window. It's dangerous!

Right now I'm trapped. My host family has gone to I donno where. Because of security here, you need a key to get in and out. A key... what am I talking about? Five keys. Ten keys. Dozens of keys.

To leave the apartment building and complex you need:

  1.   Key#1 to the apartment door (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

  2.  Key#2 to the metal gate just outside the door. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

  3.  Key#3 to the gate protecting the alcove of 2 apartments on the left side of the elevator. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

  4.  An electronic key to call the elevator to your floor. Inside the elevator, you need the same key to push the buttons to move to your chosen floor.

  5.  The electronic key to leave the building through the main entrance. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

  6.  The electronic key to leave the building courtyard... It opens the gate. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

  7.  The electronic key to leave the entire apartment complex-- about half a dozen buildings and a small park. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave through the main gate)

And if there's a fire? It's all electronic! So much can go wrong with electronics. It's not a simple key in a simple lock. I don't want to think about it.

So my hosts are gone. Not home. I'm trapped. Can't leave. I can't get out the front door, let alone the two gates before the elevator. Okay, I'll just sit here and write. Wait for them to return.

Flashback#1: I walk into a discount luggage shop. I need to buy a bag to carry the punk stuff I pick up from my friends. And a beach towel. Somehow, I lost mine during my one-night stay at the hotel.

Gabriella, the woman, I'm staying with, told me there was a 30% inflation rate in Venezuela.

“You'd better buy today,” she said. “If you buy tomorrow, it'll be a dollar more.”

Only gas is cheap. Cheaper than water. Caracas has five million people and four million cars. You'd drive too if gas were 45 cents a gallon. Whoops, I bet you drive anyway.

Back to the shop. I pick out my towel and bag and head to the cashier. A young salesgirl, who's been following me since I entered the store, follows me to the front.

“That'll be thirty-eight Bolivars,” says the man at the register (in Spanish).

I fish out my money.

“I also need your...” I don't understand the word, but it sounds like secaro.

“I don't understand.” I tell the guy, in Spanish. “My Spanish is not that great.”

“SECARO! SECARO!” shouts the salesgirl, as if by shouting, she could make me understand better.

“MY SPANISH IS NOT THAT GOOD!” I shout back, in English.

They both look at me like I'm dangerous. But I open my wallet, fish out my driver's license, and show it to the cashier. That's the ticket.

So Venezuela becomes the first country I've ever been in that makes you show I.D. to pay cash. And I was in Poland during Commie times!

Back to the present: Still stuck here. What else can I write about? Well, there are posters of Chavez everywhere. Wall posters, most in that cut-out Communist style that Castro used to like.

There are also photos. Every politician wants his photo next to a photo of Chavez. And there's Che. Not quite as many Che posters as Chavez, but it's close.

Chavez tried to change the constitution. He wanted to give himself more power. Take decision-making away from the legislature and put it in his own hands. He rewrote the constitution and put it to the vote. He lost.

Then, like Mayor Bloomberg here in New York, Chavez decided to ignore popular opinion and put in the laws himself. There were immediate protests. They continue to this day. The protester's motto? NO ES NO!

There were petitions. Thousands of people signed, opposing Chavez ignoring the popular vote. Gabriella, my hostess, was one of them.

Soon after signing the petition, she lost her job. She is a petroleum geologist in a country where the government owns the petroleum industry. Because she signed the petition, she can no longer get a government job. She can no longer work at all.

I wonder where she and her mother went. Maybe they went to buy food, a ton of it... since it'll cost a lot more tomorrow.

So I'm thinking. Maybe my idea about Trinidad was only half right. Maybe danger is a necessary by-product of freedom. But not only that. It can also accompany vengeful totalitarianism. Control doesn't mean lack of danger-- or fear. These feelings can co-exists, or maybe MUST co-exist with control.

Maybe I'll talk to Gabriella about it. She's coming now. I can hear the key in the lock.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com), blog subscribers (mykelsblog.blogspot.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links, a few more endnotes and a chance to comment on the column]

-->I went to the right school dept: The National Coalition Against Censorship reports that in 2005, the U.S. Secret Service visited "Axis of Evil: The Secret History of Sin." It was an international exhibition of stamp art at Columbia College in Chicago. (One of my almae matres) Two federal agents took photos of Al Bradtner's "Patriot Act." The art project showed fake 37-cent stamps with a revolver pointed at GWB's head.
     Turns out Columbia was the brave school. When the same exhibit was shown at U.W. Green Bay, the chancellor removed Bardtner's work before displaying the exhibition.

-->It only took 'em 600 years dept: In an extreme example of good news-bad news, England has finally removed a law against blasphemy. It is now legal to say "God is an asshole," but it may be illegal to say “Satan is a homo.”
      See, the same law that allows blasphemy, makes “free” speech illegal if it "incites hatred against gays." It also makes “free” press illegal if it includes "violent pornography." The law punishes possession, as well as creation of such material. Ouch!

-->Keith Dobson from York PA sent me a bunch of clippings from the local paper. My favorite is about the arrest of Janet Brannon in Delhi Illinois. What was she doing? Tending bar... in the nude. The charge was "public indecency."
  Seems, however, that nobody actually complained about her bartending. The cops just discovered it on a "routine check."
     Yeah right.
     I say some cop missed getting a blowjob THAT week.

-->Maybe the bartender shudda been dancing dept: The Iowa state attorney general's office asked the Iowa Supreme Court to review a judge's ruling that nude dancing is a legal "art form."
  Seems like the lower court judge ruled that a strip club was protected under a law allowing nudity in relation to art.
    Yippie!
    I say some judge GOT a blowjob that week.

-->Funny if true dept: I got a postcard from a save-Tibet group. I don't know if its true, but it's so close to THE ONION that I believe it.
     According to this postcard, on September 1, 2007, China passed a law that says, "all Tibetan Buddhist teachers, including the Dalai Lama, cannot be reincarnated without the permission of the Chinese government."
     Talk about totalitarian! Yowsah!

--> AMNewYork reports that Serita Armstrong, a former Brooklyn traffic agent, has sued the NYPD. Why? Undercover narcotics cops, cuffed, frisked and arrested her because she "blocked their access to crullers and chocolate glazed.”
     When she told them she was a traffic cop, they arrested her for “impersonating an officer.” The Brooklyn DA latter dropped all charges against Armstrong. Who knows what happened to the charges against the cops?

-->Not all cops are donut thugs dept: Cook County Sheriff, Tom Dart, ordered his deputies to stop evicting people from foreclosed property.
  "Many people we've helped throw out on the street are just renters," he said. "We will no longer be a party to something that's so unjust."
  Yeah Tom! This donut's for you!

-->Thanks dept: My pal and Howard Stern look-alike, Stewart Brodian is a DJ on WDIY, an NPR station in Pennsylvania. He loves playing indie music on the air-- especially if you're from PA! So send him CDs, rip one if you don't have one handy. He's at POB 1253, Easton PA 18044.
S tew invited me and my pal Sid Yiddish (the famous shofar-blowing-throat-singer) to his show in October. After what we did, I hope he still has a show in November.

-end-

You can go to Mykel's homepage for lots of other interesting, weird stuff.

Mykel's MRR Column for no. 307

Saturday, December 13, 2008
Mykel's Column for MRR 307
December 2008 

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 307
by Mykel Board

Travel is pointless without certain risks.
-Paul Theroux

I was happier than a foot fetishist in a shoe store. A month. Travel. Adventure. Sex? Booze. NO WORK. Hooeey!

The plan: one week in Trinidad. Two in Venezuela. Then back to T'dad for another week. Aooogah!

Trinidad, actually Trinidad and Tobago(tm), are two small islands, the southernmost volcano tops poking through the Atlantic in a sideways J. Seven miles from South America. You can spit to Venezuela. Maybe you should.

If you've heard of Trinidad at all, you know Carnival. You probably also know the Steel Pan,a percussion instrument made from a cut oil drum. The Trinis tune it to make notes when you hit it with a mallet.

Venezuela is the land of oil and Hugo Chavez. Maybe you like the guy. He called W, The Great Satan. He gave free oil to poor people in New England. He built schools in Nicaragua. The U.S. government and press hate him. He must be good, right?

Hmm, I'll tell you later.

As I write this, I sit in THINK café. It's a local (NYC local) coffee shop. Coffeecally correct (free trade, free internet, recycling, with face-pierced clerks and Bob Dylan on the stereo), it's my closest comfortable writing location.

To experience my adventures in the Caribbean you'll have to join me in my testicular time machine. Climb in, I know it's cramped, but you'll make it. You in? Seated? Come on, squeeze! There's still room behind that vas deferen. Ready?

Now the stroke. That's it! A little more! Aaaah, a spurt to the past. August 15, 2008.

I've just arrived at the airport in Trinidad. A long trip. New York to Atlanta. Two-hour wait. Then four more hours to this land of 2,000,000 brown-skinned angels.

I have a hotel reserved. A guesthouse actually. $35 a night. One night. Then, on to a couch surfer in the countryside. I figure a guesthouse will look better to the immigration officer than the address of some stranger I've never met.

It doesn't matter. The immigration guy says, “enjoy your stay in Trinidad.” And waves me through. He doesn't care.

Outside the airport I wait for the guys from ANTI-EVERYTHING, a Trini punk band I found on My Space. I'm half an hour late, I hope they didn't give up.

I call Randy, the guitar player.

“Hey man,” (he pronounces it MAHN, like Jamaicans), “you here?”

 “Yep,” I say, looking around at the plenum of people surrounding me... Everyone looks Negro or Indian-- or some combination. I feel like I'm in the Harlem of Calcutta. And good-looking? Yow! Hubba hubba.

“I'm at the airport, a little late, but here,”

“We on our way,” says Randy. “See you soon.”

I wait by the curb. A big Negress sits on her suitcase. She talks to me.

“Oh,” she says, “if you take a taxi, make sure you ask one of the guys in white shirts. They'll take you where you want to go. The others...”

“OK,” I say, “you waiting for someone.”

“My sister,” says the woman. “She was supposed to be here an hour ago. She knows... This your first time in Trinidad?”

I nod.

“You'll have a good time,” she says. “Just watch your back.”

Eventually, her sister shows up. I'm standing there. At the curb. I'm tired from the planride. My neck hurts from the strain of trying to watch my back. My new friends haven't....

Here comes a car. An old beater. Ford? Chevy? A young guy with a ponytail rides half out the back window. His arms raised in the air.

“Mykel! Mykel!” he's shouting, as the car rounds the curve on two wheels.

I wave.

The car screeches to a halt in front of me.

The front door opens and this young guy, with glasses and a scraggly beer gets out. He looks Indian... like most of the folks around. He gives me a hug like we're old friends.

“Randy?” I figure.

“Yah Mykel,” he says. “Sorry we were late.”

He opens the trunk and I throw in my bags. Then I get in the back seat. Next to Randy is a beautiful girl who looks like she's just stepped out of a Bollywood movie. Next to her is a big guy, an Indian with dreadlocks, friendlier than a puppy.

The attractive brown guy who was half out the window sits next to me in the back.

“Hey, Mahn,” he says, “I'm Allan...” He hands me a beer.

“You drink beer, mahn?” he asks.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” I say.

He doesn't get it. Who cares? He hands me a beer. And we're off.

Everybody in the car has a beer. Including Randy, a beer in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

We plow through traffic. Sometimes on the right. Sometimes on the left. I can't figure out which side these people drive on. I don't think it matters. It's a DODGE 'EM-CRASH 'EM car chase. Whiz. Screetch. Dodge that truck. Quick turn. There goes the beer. Who cares? There's more where that came from.

Allan is on about something. He's gesturing, talking a lightyear a second. He mentions bops... watch out for 'em. (I later learn that bops are policemen. Probably rhyming slang with cops.) I should try some babash. I'll never get it in New York. Something vex him... (that I can sorta figure out). Something semi demi happened. He's not interested in any mampy. And look at that jagabat out the window there. Yowsah! What language is this?

Randy talks a little more normally.

“I guess you're tired,” he says. “I'll drop you off at the hotel and see you tomorrow.”

“You don't want to be limin'?” asks Allan.

“Lime-ing?” I ask. “You mean like having a piece of green fruit?”

The others laugh.

“Limin', limin'” says Allan.

“It's like hanging out,” explains Randy. “You know just drinking, and hanging out with people and...”

“Oh yeah,” I tell him. “I'm really want to lime. I want to see everything.”

“OK,” says Randy, now nearing the guesthouse. “We'll pick you up at eight.”

“Sure,” I tell him.

At ten o'clock, they show up.

Out we go. Same people in the car. We're off to SOMEPLACE.

“Ghetto mahn,” says Allan.

On the way, at every stop, (not stop light or stop sign... those don't mean anything, but just where we HAVE to stop because the car in front of us stopped, and there is another car on the right and left), Allan rolls down the window and yells at the passers by.

“Chinkies?” he says. “You (unitelligible) Chinkies?”

I'm worried I've discovered some kind of anti-Chinese racism.

Some people shrug. Some people point. The car careens ever forward.

We end up on a sidewalk on a side street. The main street itself is the loudest street I've ever heard. Competing music: socca, calypso, soul, rap, hip hop, what-the-fuck? All at volumes high enough to drown a jet engine.

We pile out of the car. Allan accosts a passer-by. A young woman more black than Indian-looking. She's got a pair of buttocks that you wish would invite you to move in between and take up residence.

“Chinkies? Chinkies?” he asks.

The woman smiles and points. We're off.

It turns out Chinkies is an outdoor stand (a chain?) where they make lots of things with lots of pepper in them. Everybody buys one of something.

“What should I ask for?” I ask Randy, reaching for my wallet.

He shoves a paper-wrapped something in my hand.

“You're with us,” he says. “You don't pay.”

I take a bite of something really messy and really delicious. It drips brown out of the thin paper and down my arm. I run my tongue over my arm, scooping up the sauce. It's peppery with the bite that Indian food should have, but rarely has among the pepper wimps in New York.

The delicious something still in hand, we approach a bar.

“Shouldn't I finish this food first?” I say.

“Why?” asks Randy. “It goes better with drink.”

Turns out, in Trinidad, you can buy food one place and bring it into another. You can buy booze one place, bring it into another or just drink it on the street. Except for my passport on entering the country, I had to show my ID exactly NO TIMES in Trinidad.

“You want a Stag?” asks Bryan.

Do I know? A stag could turn out to be anything, but what the fuck?

 “Sure,” I say.

It's a beer... the man's beer.

We walk, drink, eat, look at girls, talk, get drunker. Go limin'. Lime some more.

I pull my digital camera from its holster and shoot the scene.

“Be careful with your camera,” says Bryan. “It's not so safe around here.”

I am not careful.

All-in-all it's the best first night I've had in a country where I didn't get laid. I wasn't allowed to spend a cent. I was completely plastered. Filled with Chinkie's chicken with peppah. Smiling a mile a minute, completely unaware of how I got back to the guesthouse.

The next morning... late morning... I'm having breakfast in the guesthouse restaurant. The Daily Express is there for the perusing. Headlines: Dengue Fever Outbreak, inside: Brazen Murder in City. Next page: Chopping Suspect on the Run.

I put the paper aside and pick up The Guardian. Headlines: 52 Killers Escape Hangman. Yowsah.

In October 2005, there was a march on the capital of Trinidad to protest the rising crime rate. 305 people, dressed in white, laid down in the street to symbolize the number murdered that year. That's a huge number, considering the population of the whole country is less than the number of people who live in Manhattan. In 2005, there were fewer than 100 murders in Manhattan.

“Watch your back,” the guesthouse clerk tells me. “Trinidad has a really high crime rate. More than 400 murders so far this year.” And it's only September.

So I'm thinking. OK, you have a free country. No traffic police. No drinking age. Never show an ID. No TV cameras on the street. No finger printing visitors. Really free. But are you paying for that freedom with murder?

Later in the trip, I ask Bryan about it.

“You got it,” he says. “I was in Florida once. I felt like I couldn't do anything. I needed an ID to rent a videotape. I was carded, watched, everything. But, I guess I was safe. Here, we are freer, but the price for bops that don't care is crime.”

After a night at the guesthouse, I move in with a New York-born Jew who worked in the diamond business. He retired at 40, married a Trini woman (who wouldn't?), built a mansion with a swimming pool and servant's house. I had my own room.

“What do I want with America?” he says. “You have no freedom. You have no healthcare. People are stupid... and ugly.”

“So you want to stay here?” I ask him.

“Sure,” he says, “the only problem is the crime.”

I'm thinking about this as I get on the airplane for Caracas, Venezuela. I'm thinking about how freedom maybe isn't so free if you always have to watch your back. It'll be interesting to see what it's like in a more controlled country. See how my idol, Chavez keeps control. What kind of freedom do the people have there? Should I be willing to give up the quest for freedom for a tad of security?

On the other hand, I never felt in danger in Trinidad. My rich Jew host in his mansion never locked the door. The people in his little town all know-- and watch out for-- each other. I donno. It's a tough problem.

I don't sleep the night before the Venezuela flight. I'm out limin' with the gang. Then Randy brings me to the airport.

I get on the plane for the 20 minute ride to Caracas... and pass out.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]

-->Ho ho ho dept: Jim Hass sends me a clipping about a 52-year-old man who was convicted of beating an elderly street minister to death, in downtown Atlanta in 2004. Prosecutors said the killer was dressed as Santa Claus at the time of the attack.

-->Contact dept: My new friends in Trinidad and Venezuela need CONTACTS. Help bring them into the world. Look for the Trinis on MySpace under their bandname: Anti-Everything. You can find the Venezuelans on MySpace at APATIA NO! or email 'em at: apatia_no@gmx.net

-->Another disappointment dept: Next week you'll read about my disappointment with Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. In the meantime, Ms. S, who I've written about before, sent me a clipping from the NY Times, International edition.
  Seems like in Cuba, the Raoul Castro government couldn't stomach the lyrics of punk rocker Gorki Aguila Carasco. He was arrested at a concert for “social dangerousness..” A charge with as much meaning as the American “conspiracy.” Fortunately, public pressure (including President Bush!), forced the Cubans to release him with a $28 fine.
  His comment on release, “I've walked out of the small cage, into the big one.”

-->Hole in my theory department: I usually never go to places that tell you how great they are. I'd never shop in a store that calls itself Best Buys. I won't eat in a Delicious Diner. Or buy shoes at the Wonderful Shoe Shop. I figure if a store needs to name itself Best, Wonderful or Terrific, it's not.
  But in Trinidad, where everything is great anyway, I went to the Excellent Stores Shopping Center to use the internet café. Nothing special, right? I just walk up to the counter, pay the attractive girl $15 Trini dollars (about $3 US dollars), plug in and surf.
  The first week of my Trinidad visit, I do this exactly twice. Mundane, boring task, right? Hooey!
  I leave Trinidad for two weeks in Venezuela. When I return, I go to the internet cafe. The same girl is behind the counter.
  “Hi!” she says with a smile from Port of Spain to Hicksville New York. “It's great to see you again! Where have you been?”
  I'm her long lost friend. After two visits. Less than five minutes of commercial intercourse. And suddenly we're pals. Yowsah! What can I say, but EXCELLENT!

-->I wonder if it's full of shit dept: It's called The Colossal Colon, and it was on display at the Indiana State Fair. It's a 40 foot long model of the human colon. Visitors can crawl through it and experience what it must be like for a real live turd. No word on which politicians or talk show personalities have made the treck.

-->Really bad timing dept: I think it was Jim Haas who sent me the article about Greyhound Canada pulling its ads. The ad campaign featured happy bus travelers with the tag line: There a reason you've never heard of bus rage.
  The ad was pulled after Vince Li, a recent immigrant to Canada, was charged with murder. The guy allegedly attacked another bus passenger, stabbing him several times. As the other passengers fled the bus, Li severed his victim's head, displaying it to the passengers outside. A police officer at the scene, said that he saw Li “hacking off pieces of the victim's body... and eating them.”

-end

You can go to Mykel's homepage for lots of other interesting, weird stuff.

Mykel's Column for MRR 306 November 2008

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 306
by Mykel Board

America has Race Fever. It's not an actual race war, but a sort of racial Cold War. A grinding war of nerves. And it's impossible to escape. A race war would be anticlimactic at this point. --Jim Goad

[NOTE: This is my LAST column about race and the elections. I promise! Next month, something more personal... from Trinidad and Venezuela. This will NOT, however, be the last column where I talk (about) shit. I LOVE shit.]

When girls shit do they do something dainty? Me? I pinch a loaf. Lay some cable. Drown the chocolate slugs. Slash the brown trout .... Macho, tough-sounding excrement. What do girls do? Drop some daisies? Plant the coffee beans? Dot the i's?

I've talked with a lot of girls about shitting. Sadly, the biological process doesn't satisfy them as much as it does the testiculared class.

“It's just something you do,” says Miranda. “Like taking out the garbage or washing the dishes.”

“I do those things every month,” I tell her. “I don't feel especially pleased afterwards.”

“Exactly!” she says, as if that proved something.

“That's sad,” I tell her. “It feels so good. Like shoving a carrot up your ass. Only in reverse.”

“If you say so Mykel,” she says.

“Okay then,” I ask her. “What do you call it? When girls have to paint the porcelain or dunk the brown klaxton?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Mykel?” she asks. “We just do it. Do you have a special name for washing the dishes? It's just something you do.”

BINGO!

Of course! You only have special names for things that are special. You have euphemisms, funny names, tech-speak, graphic language. All this to describe what's important, fun, sexy. If taking a shit doesn't mean shit to you, you don't need a special name for it.

That's why I decided to again write about the up-coming election. Though, by the time you read this, McCain may have already been sworn in.

In any case, it's important to talk about language. I wrote about NIGGER before. This time, I want to write more about language and race. How we use special words for what's important. How words themselves make us think in a certain way. How language can confuse or obfuscate.

“Tom McCain doesn't have a racist bone in his body,” says Joe Lieberman after McCain makes some racist remark.

I wonder about this. Where is the racist bone? I don't remember one from science class. And I sure spent a lot of time with that anatomy textbook.

I check ask.com. It says that the human body has 206 bones. I check out the names. No racist bone. Maybe NOBODY has a racist bone.

I finally find a diagram of the appendage. You can see it at: http://tinyurl.com/6kev4r,if your browser will let you.

[Aside: tinyurl.com is a free website where you enter a long URL and it changes it to a short URL, starting with: tiny.com. For example, you find something cool at: http://www.somethingcool.com/pg8/analanomolies/ref#42/~leslies/432.23.

You plug it into tinyurl.com. The website generates a much shorter address, maybe tinyurl.com/321abc. That's what you forward to your friends. Great service right?

Well, spammers found the site is also useful for covering tracks. They put in their spam addresses. Tinyurl generates another, untraceable, address. Then the spammers use that one.

So, like in airports, where security security security trumps convenience, free speech, free movement, free anything, some browsers and some websites (like MySpace) block all tinyurl addresses. They might be spam, you see. Better safe than... I donno, annoyed?

Fuck Security! One of these days we'll be so secure we won't be able to do anything! But we'll be safe.]

If you can't get to the picture on your browser I'll describe it. The racist bone is at the tip of the right thumb. It's not clear whether it's the entire upper digit, or just a small extra growth. But that's where it is.

Is this fact? The picture is an artist's rendition, not an actual photo. It may be in the artist's mind. A figment of his idiomatic imagination. I still can't find a person who has one to show.

No one brags, or even thinks about the racist bone unless they DON'T have one. The lack of that bone defines it. I google for someone who HAS a racist bone, and is proud of it. I can't find anyone. Everyone denies it. Nope, not me. Not a racist bone.

Maybe it's like holding a candle to something. You only find people or things that CAN'T hold a candle to other people or things. If someone CAN hold a candle to something, you don't hear about it.

I bring this racist bone thing up to a Democrat pal of mine. She wears an Obama campaign button bigger than Obama himself. She once clobbered a Ralph Nader supporter for “giving us George Bush."

“So,” I tell her, “I've been looking for the racist bone. The one that John McCain doesn't have one of in his body. I heard it's at the end of the thumb. Which bone do you think is the racist bone?”

“They all are,” she says.

BINGO!

We're all racists. At least all of us in America in 2008. We live, breathe and think race. Race is what we first notice about others. (Unless they have a physical handicap. Then THAT'S first). Race is what we're drawn to or repelled by. It's what completes the phrase Some of my best friends are... We're all racist. We have to be as much as we have to shit. Now I'm beginning to see. But wait! There's more...

Besides bones, There're cards. This or that politician is playing the race card. That's even harder to find than the racist bone. I locate a chart of the picture cards in a 52-card deck.

I figure that the race card must be one of the picture cards, not a number card. Except for the Ace of Spades I can't imagine how the numbered cards would have anything to do with race.

For the picture cards, I find out the King of Hearts is Charlemagne. The Queen of Hearts is Judith (of the Book of Judith,”an Apocryphal Book of the Bible.” Something Christian, I guess.) The Jack of Hearts is "La Hire," a famous French warrior. The King of Spades is King David of Jewish Star fame. The Queen of Spades is Pallas, a.k.a. Minerva. The Jack of Spades is Hogier the Dane, one of Charlemagne's paladins. (What the fuck is a paladin?) The King of Diamonds is Julius Caesar. The Queen of Diamonds is Rachel (of the Bible). The Jack of Diamonds is Hector of Troy or Roland of France. (I've heard of neither.) The King of Clubs is Alexander the Great. The Queen of Clubs is an anagram of Regina, all the queens of England put together. And the Jack of Clubs is Lancelot.

Except for the Jews, David and Rachel, the rest of 'em seem like generic white Europeans. One, not much different from the others. Which is the race card? And how exactly do you play it? No telling from this chart.

I go to Ask.com and ask Which card is the race card?

For an answer, I get some references to people playing that card (always negative... usually involved with politics), and some sponsored ads for Visa and American Express. Not very useful.

As any student-with-a-last-minute deadline has learned, when you want well-researched and consistently incorrect answers, you go to Wikipedia. This is what it says about the race card:

Playing the race card is an idiomatic phrase referring to an allegation against a person who has brought the issue of race or racism into a debate. It is a metaphorical reference to card games in which a trump card may be used to gain an advantage.

The phrase is commonly used in two contexts. First, it alleges that someone has deliberately and falsely accused another person of being a racist to gain some sort of advantage.

An example of this occurred during the O.J. Simpson criminal trial, when critics accused the defense of "playing the race card" in presenting Mark Fuhrman's racist past as a reason to draw his credibility as a witness into question.

In the second context, it refers to someone exploiting prejudice against another race for political or some other advantage. The use of the southern strategy by a political candidate is said to be a version of "playing the race card", like when former Senator Jesse Helms ran an ad showing a black man taking a white man's job. The ad was interpreted as trying to play to racist fears among white voters.

On the other hand, George Dei and Karumanchery, in their book Playing the Race Card, argue that the term itself is a rhetorical device used to devalue and minimize claims of racism.

BINGO!

That's it! The charge of playing the racist card is racist! It's a racist attempt to either inject race or falsely take race out of the sphere of debate. It's using race, and, in a racist way, tries to invalidate it.

The American presidential election in 2008 is all about race. No bones. No cards. No nothin'. No matter what Obama says. No matter how awful his religious proclamations, his self-cultishness, his stupid Russia bashing or his fawning over war in Afghanistan. No matter what, this is about race.

For the first time, America has a real chance to put a political end to the racism that's defined America since The Constitution. It has a chance to trump the racist card. To break the racist bone.

Every voter has a duty to put the period on the 200-years-of-slavery sentence. Negroes were slaves. Now one can be president. If this fails (and I believe it will. Americans are just too... well.. racist... to allow a colored president), America will fail again, and continue being the most evil country on earth.

If it succeeds, the America disease will not be cured over night. Objectively, America may not get any better. But we will have won with the race card. We can finally make it as valuable as any other card in the deck.

Am I saying that NOT voting for Obama is racist? Am I saying that even if you vote for Nader or don't vote at all, you're committing a racist act? Am I saying that voting against Obama because you don't like his stand on religion in government, or the Afghan war, or gay marriage, is STILL racist?

YES! That's exactly what I'm saying. Not voting for Barak Obama is racist. Bone or no bone. Card or no card. Race isn't the main issue here. It's the only issue.


ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get more endnotes (There's a new column length limit at MRR.) live links and a chance to email comment on the column. Subscribers will not get the columns any earlier than anyone else.]

-->Target practice dept: King Abudullah of Saudi Arabia has offered his country as a meeting place. Who for? “Representatives of the world's monotheistic religions.” Why? “to discuss how to "shore up faith" in a world of "declining family values and rising non-belief."
Says the king, "The idea is to ask representatives of all monotheistic religions to sit together with their brothers in faith and sincerity to all religions."
Wow! What an opportunity! The leaders of all the world's monotheistic religions together in the desert. Makes you think of one giant bullseye, doesn't it?

-->Pervert dept: This year, Police arrested Michael Bessigano for downloading bestiality images from the internet! Who knew THAT was illegal? I donno, maybe it violated the conditions of his parole.
In 2002, he was convicted of having sex with a chicken and in 1993 for "a matter involving a dog." Two years in jail for sex with a chicken... probably getting raped there. That's supposed to cure him? Maybe it'll cure him of his animal love so he can start raping humans, like normal people do.

-->More jailbird's addresses dept: I think I already wrote about Cassidy. He's been in the clink for ages for stealing a pair of socks. He's put together a prison project, collecting real pictures taken by real folks from places around the world. If you've got some good ones, send 'em to him: Cassidy Wheeler, #14282456, 82911 Beach Access Road, Umatilla OR 97882

-->Sometimes I forget how much I love Mexicans dept: Yowsah! My pal Gilberto tells me that Sucieded Discriminada is coming to New York. 40+ year old punks, still doing it! From Sonora in North Mexico. I'm there (ABC NO RIO).
The Mexis are sandwiched by two younger punk bands, both Boston based. I like 'em both and BOTH of 'em give me free recorded material. A 3-CD set from Max and the Marginalized (maxandthemarginalized.com). Their shtick? They write, record and post a news song every week. That's not a typo. They write NEWS songs. Topical stuff. Like about Lou Dobbs. One a week.
Talk about productivity! One of these columns a month kills me... and I don't have to worry about a drummer Speaking of drummers, the other gringo band: LIBYANS, has the best drummer I've seen this century. Amazing!! He's only in two bands.That's because he lives in Boston. In NY, he'd be in 40! Punk rock with a girl singer too! Contact: thelibyans@gmail.com
As for the Mexis. Holy Frito Bandito. Great show! Complete with rubber masks of famous Mexican politicos. I danced with one over my head. It did not smell of nachos
Contact them at www.geocities.com/suciedaddiscriminada

-->They've started coming-- me too dept: I wanna thank Dick Berger and Tom Washington for the homemade DVD they sent me. Yeah, I believe your name's are Dick and Tom, like I believe America invaded Iraq for humanitarian reasons. But thanks in any case, by any name. It's a DVD that'll get a lot of use. And Dick, that's a nice Tom you've got there.
Keep those things coming. Send me your homemade sex tapes. As usual, I'm at POB 137, Prince St. Station, NYC 10012 USA.

-end-

go to Mykel's homepage

Mykel's Column for MRR 305 October 2008

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 305
by Mykel Board
 

Woman is the nigger of the world. --John Lennon, 1972

***
  Jimi Hendrix was a nigger. Jesus Christ and Grandma, too. Jackson Pollock was a nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger. Outside of society, they're waitin' for me. Outside of society, if you're looking, that's where you'll find me. --Patti Smith, 1976
***
  Guns don't kill people. Niggaz do.    --Bumper Sticker last seen 1992

***
  Jesse Jackson uses the N-word. -Headline, NY Post, 2008

When I hear someone say, “The F-word,” it's like listening to mom talking about “pee pee.” Little Mickey shouldn't hear PISS. He might start talking dirty in front of the relatives.

There isn't an F-word. There is FUCK. It has dozens of meanings, from whatever (as it “Fuck it, who cares?”) to Wow (as in “That was fuckin' amazing!”) to sexual intercourse (“Wanna fuck?”).

When I hear someone say “the N-word,” it's like listening to mom talking about poo-poo.

Little Mickey should hear SHIT. He might start talking dirty in front of the relatives.

Yo, buckaroos. There isn't an N-word. There is NIGGER. It has fewer meanings than FUCK, but more connotations.

Wikipedia says:

In the U.S., theword nigger was not always considered derogatory, but was instead used by many as merely denotative of black skin, as it was in other parts of the English-speaking world. In nineteenth-century literature, there are many uses of the word nigger with no intended negative connotation. Charles Dickens, and Joseph Conrad (who published The Nigger of the'Narcissus' in 1897) used the word without racist intent. Mark Twain often put the word into the mouths of his characters, white and black, but did not use the word when writing as himself in his autobiographical Life on the Mississippi. In the UnitedKingdom and other parts of the English-speaking world, the word was often used to refer to people of Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Kashmiri, Indian or Sri Lankan descent, or merely for darker-skinned foreigners in general; in his 1926 Modern English Usage, H. W. Fowler observed that when the word was applied to "others than full or partial Negroes," it was "felt as an insult by the person described, and betrays in the speaker, if not deliberate insolence, at least a very arrogant inhumanity." The note was excised from later editions of the book. In the 1800s, as nigger began to acquire the pejorative connotation it holds today, the term "Colored" gained popularity as a kinder alternative to Negro and associated terms. For example, abolitionists in Boston, Massachusetts posted warnings to "Colored People of Boston and vicinity." The name of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People reflects the preference for this term at the time of the NAACP's founding in 1909.

I give the NAACP a poo-pooload of credit for not abandoning “colored people,” when the language fashion changed. But it's a damn shame that colored people... and everyone else... has abandoned NIGGER, running from it like Christians before the wizards of Harry Potter.“Don't say that word! It's evil! Satanic! Witchcraft! You'll die!”
In 2008, NIGGER has more power than Albus Dumbledore. I don't want to give it up.

Patti Smith got it right. Niggers are outside of society. They are the trouble makers, the bad guys, the ones who refuse to fit in, refuse to be nice. If that's you, then embrace your inner Nigger. Call it by name: NIGGER!

Years ago, homos reclaimed the word QUEER. They figured, why let the phobes have the best words?

If you think about it, you can see the logic. Would you like to be a homosexual? Yuck. Sounds like a tweed jacket, pipe, elbow patches.

“Oh yes, I happen to be a homosexual. Pip pip ole' chap.”

It doesn't matter how much semen has loosened itself in my anus. I am not a homosexual. You can bet my ass on that.

But queer! That's me. It's a word with power. One syllable. Hits you in the balls. Think of the rhymes: Fear! Beer! High gear! Yeah, I'll be a queer any day. Call me queer. Thanks! But I am NOT a homosexual.

And Nigger? For rhymes we've got Vigor! Bigger! Trigger! Oh yeah, I'll be one of those. Why let the crackers have the best words?

Nigger is more than a potent word. It's a potent image. A potent history. Like “punk,” it's a word of contempt. And has been since the 1900s. Also like punk, it's a word to wear like a medal, if you're brave enough earn the contempt of others.

So Mykel, waddaya want from me?

Glad you asked.

I want you to sit under a tree. Fold your legs in full lotus. Rest a hand on each knee. On each hand, touch the thumb to the middle finger, making a circle. Close your eyes and listen to your breath. Follow the air as it goes out of your lungs, then back down... down... down... into your body. Let your consciousness travel inward with that breath. Concentrate.

It may take awhile, but you'll see it. First a black speck, then a black pea, then a ping pong ball. Keep following it. You're on the path of discovering your inner Negritude. The Nigger inside.

Surprise! You're outside of society. You don't want to be respected by stockbrokers. You don't want to show your ID at the bar door. You don't want to live from nine to five and go shopping on the weekend. You're a Nigger. Great first step.

The next and hardest part is to be proud of it.

You found it. Embrace it. It isn't the N-word. It's you. And me. And Patti Smith. And every Nigger who did the right thing and earned the contempt of the world for it.

Punks! Smokers! Fat People! Pedophiles! You're Niggers!

Muslims! Femmy guys! Butch girls! You are too.

Cripples! Old people! Underage drinkers!

Outside of society, Nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger,
nigger, nigger, nigger.

We are the world's Niggers. And I'm marching in front of the crowd, the N-word branded into my chest by a hot cup of Starbuck's coffee. Come on, fellow Niggers. Are you with me?

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]

-->Cause and effect dept: In a classic example of mistaking cause for effect, The Bottom Line notes that people who are overweight are more likely to have bad breath than their fat-impaired counterparts. The magazine says the reason may be "because they eat a diet that promotes dry mouth and/or because of poor dental hygiene.”
       They've got it wrong. The bad breath came first. Then their friends stayed way. They got depressed. They ate to relieve the depression. They got fat.

-->We're number one... er... dept: The U.S. now ranks 19th, er... dead last... among industrialized nations in preventable deaths. This compares with 15th place 10 years ago. Why? Now THAT'S not hard to figure out. Healthcare anyone? How about diet? Advertising? The insurance industry?

-->Fecal mental health dept: In Madison Wisconsin, police charged Tammy Lewis and Alan Bushey with "causing mental harm to a child." The reason? Alan Bushey, a self-proclaimed Bishop, said that a dead 90 year old woman would come back to life if they left her on the toilet where she died. That corpse stayed on the john for two months. The police said that the children in the house, a 15-year old girl and a 12-year old boy, suffered because of the smell.
  The smell? That's the cruelty? What about the inability to use the toilet! Grandma's sitting there rotting. Where do you shit? In a soup pot in the kitchen? That's WORSE cruelty, I'd say. But I'm not a cop.

-->Sin tax dept: Florida State Representative Rick Kriseman has written a bill that would impose a $1 tax on "adult entertainment" clients to increase Medicare benefits.
     Says Kriseman, "People that frequent these businesses tend to go in with wads of bills. I don't think they'll miss one."
     Angelina Spencer, executive director of "the Florida Sunshine Entertainment Association," opposes the bill.
     "What we're opposed to," she says, " is an arbitrary tax that singles out one particular industry."
     Oh, you mean like gas, cigarettes or booze?

-->Number One With A Bullet Dept: Kyle N writes me that he's in jail with Jay Scott Ballinger, the guy who burned down 33 churches saying he was serving LUCIFER. Kyle gave Jay a copy of my book, I, A ME-IST. Ballinger was "appalled and shocked" at my writing. Yowsah!

-->Insult? I'd say compliment dept: Kyle also sent me a clipping about a group of four people (2 women and 2 other) from the island of Lesbos, off the Greek coast. They're suing a Greek gay rights group, asking that the group be prohibited from using the word "Lesbian" to describe gay women. The complainers told the court that the word LESBIAN "causes embarrassment to the women of Lesbos." These women, he says, are afraid to call themselves "Lesbians" because people might think they are gay. As of this writing, the case has not yet been settled.
  I guess the folks from the ancient city of SODOM, are waiting for a decision to see if they, too, will sue. Stay tuned.

-->Not quite dead last dept: In its first-annual survey, the travel website Expedia asked 4,000 hoteliers their opinions of various nationalities as tourists. The Japanese got the most praise. Americans tied with Thais for an unimpressive 11th place. The French came in 19th. The Chinese were 21st-- last on the list.

-->Death penalty for attempted suicide dept: Juan Alvarez ran out of his gas-soaked SUV after parking it on railroad tracks in Glendale California. A train ran into it, killing 11 people. Alvarez was arrested and charged with murder.
  He pleaded not guilty. The man said he had intended to kill himself and then changed his mind. He couldn't get the SUV off the tracks in time, so he ran. The jury disagreed and found him guilty. On 11 counts of murder, he could face the death penalty. Does he hope so?
  [Late Note: just before the deadline for this column the papers report that Alvarez got life in prison. I wonder if it'll be a long sentence.]

-->Bad guys try again dept: California laws have repeatedly struck down requests of parents for home schooling. Mostly supported by right-wing Christians (with a few hippies for added disgustitude), home schooling is just a way to pass prejudices, skewed philosophy, and religious intolerance onto the next generation of idiots.
      Public schooling forces (or should force) race, gender and idea mixing. It should challenge parents and open students to ideas they would not have heard.
     Parents say this is unfair. They should have a right to educate their children into whatever idiocy they choose. Of course they already HAVE that right. They can teach their kids whatever they want... AFTER school. That's the way it should be.
       Unfortunately, the badguys don't give up. They're trying again and the courts must yet again decide the case. I'm not betting on the good guys in this one.

-->Let's hear it for God dept: In 1999, Oregon passed a law that bans parents from treating seriously ill children with prayer alone. This year, a 15-month-old girl died of pneumonia when her parents treated her with prayer instead of antibiotics. I say the police made a mistake. God, in her own way, is at work here, cleansing the world of future Christians.

-->Speaking of Niggers dept: Barack Obama is trying his hardest to get me not to vote for him. He votes YES on the citizen spy bill. He says religion should “play a greater part in U.S. domestic policy.” Oy vey! He's acting like an African American. Maybe Jesse Jackson was wrong.
        The only decent thing he's done in the last six months is to complain that the New Yorker Magazine insulted Muslims. That took some balls. These days, insulting Muslims is as safe as insulting the KKK. NOT insulting them takes courage.
       That courage might be the little piece of Nigger in Obama that'll still get me to vote for him.

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